


All I Ask

by eden22



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, but just like a lil bit, seriously just angst that's all there is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-15
Updated: 2015-12-15
Packaged: 2018-05-06 23:50:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5435423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eden22/pseuds/eden22
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky Barnes is going off to war. Bucky Barnes is going to die.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All I Ask

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is for Mel, who texted me "I need a Steve/Bucky fic based off of Adele's All I Ask" because she loves pain, and apparently so do I. Happy birthday!!! I'm sorry that I didn't get your hockey au written in time, hope you enjoy this in the meantime. 
> 
> No beta, all mistakes are my own.

__  
If this is my last night with you  
Hold me like I'm more than just a friend  
Give me a memory I can use  
Take me by the hand while we do what lovers do  
It matters how this ends  
'Cause what if I never love again?  


Steve sat in the darkness at the table, mostly empty bottle of whisky held loosely between his hands as he stared into space. The sun had set almost without him even noticing, the yellow of the afternoon slipping into the blue of the evening before fading into the dark of the night. He’d gone from work to the grocery store, where he’d picked up the bottle of whiskey with the money that had been meant for that week’s cut of meat, back to the apartment that he and Bucky shared, and he hadn’t moved since. 

_Bucky_. 

Two days and Steve’s best friend, his only friend really, was going off to Europe to be shot at by Nazis while Steve stayed in the States doing nothing. He’d been putting on a brave front ever since Bucky had gotten his letter, not showing his friend how upset he was, but Bucky was off at the dance halls tonight celebrating one of his last nights in the States and Steve was wallowing. He lifted the bottle to his mouth, taking another long swallow, swaying slightly as he lowered the bottle. His head was fuzzy, stuffed with alcohol and sorrow and anger and he found himself blinking slowly into the darkness of the kitchen. 

Ever since Sarah had died Steve had sunk into his isolation like he was the one who had died. He hadn’t meant to, not really, but between his health and his confrontational nature, he had never been the most popular, and after his mother died he hadn’t been able to summon the energy to even pretend anymore. Bucky Barnes was probably the only person left in the world who really knew Steve Rogers, and he was leaving Steve. Steve took another drink, relishing the burn of the cheap alcohol stinging the back of his throat. He knew he was being petty, being selfish, but he couldn’t help thinking about how alone he was going to be with Bucky gone. The only person who really knew him, who cared about him, the only person that really mattered to _Steve_ was leaving him. 

Steve couldn’t remember when he realized that what he felt for Bucky was unnatural, went beyond what a man should feel for his best friend. Maybe it had been the hot August night when they were teenagers and they stole Mr. Richardson’s beer and headed up to the roof, stargazing and smoking and drinking all night. Bucky had been radiant in the moonlight and Steve had felt his chest tighten like he was having an attack. Or maybe it had been the day of Sarah’s funeral, when Bucky had followed Steve home and bullied him into letting Bucky in, and Steve had felt such a sudden surge of exasperated fondness it had startled him. Maybe it had been the day they had met, when Bucky had stepped between him and the older boys that were determined to make Steve’s face look like so much ground beef, maybe Steve had been doomed from the start. Or maybe it had been the coalescence of a thousand small moments, all building into the feeling that rose within Steve at the most inopportune moments, choking him. 

He looked at Bucky and all he could see was how beautiful he was. 

He loved Bucky with an intensity that threatened to strangle him, love like a burden, love like a prison sentence. Love like a gift. He couldn’t imagine loving anyone as much as he loved Bucky, couldn't imagine anyone caring as much about sickly, pissed-off Steve Rogers as Bucky did. Steve knew that nothing would ever come of it, of course he did. Bucky liked girls more than ‘bout anyone Steve knew, always going on about their soft skin and perfumed hair. Sometimes Steve hated them, the way they caught Bucky’s attention, had him trailing after them like a lovesick puppy. Most of the time he didn’t, liked Bucky’s girls well enough, but the monster that lived inside him still hated, and hated hard. 

So there was Steve, sick and hopeless and alone, and there was Bucky, perfect and warm and drawing people to him like a moth to flame.

What if he never loved again? 

Once Bucky was gone, there would be no one. Steve would finally be utterly alone in the world, without a single other soul looking after him, without a single person knowing _who_ he is beyond the anger and bluster. He startled when he realized he had started crying, taking another swig of the whiskey, angry at himself for being so weak. Angry for being so drunk, so in love, so helpless, so hopeless. Angry at himself for wallowing, for indulging his worst urges. He stared down at the bottle, feeling the tears continuing to slide down his cheeks, helpless to stop them. A small choked sob forced itself from his throat and he crumpled into himself, hunching skinny shoulders as he bent over and cried, eyes screwed shut. He loved Bucky, and Bucky was going to die. Steve could feel it. 

James Buchanan Barnes was going to get his gun. He was going to fly over to Europe. And he was going to die there. 

Steve sniffed, raising the bottle to take another drink, his thoughts spiralling around and around to the same things over and over. How pathetically in love he was, how alone he was going to be, how Bucky, the brightest point in Steve’s light, was going to go out forever. His tears stopped slowly, and he let out a bitter laugh as he looked down at his hands, trembling in the dim light. 

_Pathetic, Rogers,_ he thought to himself. 

The scrape of a key in the door had him fumbling at his bottle, turning just in time to see Bucky walk in through the door. The other man stopped, startled, staring at Steve sitting at their kitchen table in the dark. 

“Stevie?” Bucky said, voice quiet and obviously sober, “what are you doing sittin’ in the dark, are you…” Bucky trailed off as he reached over and flicked on the light, taking in the sight of his best friend blinking in the sudden light, the mostly-empty whiskey bottle held in his hands, the way he was swaying slightly even sitting down. “What the hell Stevie?” Bucky said with a frown, voice gentle despite his harsh words. “What the fuck you doin’, gettin’ drunk in the dark?” Bucky pulled off his boots and coat, sliding into the other chair, looking at Steve with an expression of serious concern. Steve couldn’t deal with Bucky right now, hadn’t expected to see him again that night. 

“Thought you’d be out later,” he said quietly, hating the way the words slurred together, feeling suddenly and painfully aware of how drunk he was. 

“Have you been crying?” Bucky asked, ignoring Steve, and wasn’t that just Bucky. Stomping over all social niceties out of concern for Steve. Steve scrubbed at the drying tracks on his cheeks, knowing from experience that there was nothing he could do about how red his eyes had become. 

“No,” he sniffed, convincing no one. 

“What’s the matter Steve?” Bucky asked, leaning forward, eyes flicking over Steve’s face as if he could see the answer written there (and how often had Steve feared and hoped for that in equal measure). 

“Nothing,” Steve said, letting anger creep into his voice, pushing back from the table, stumbling slightly as he stood, “m’ going to bed.” 

“Wait,” Bucky said, catching Steve’s sleeve. “You’re not going anywhere until you tell me what’s wrong. Why you’re sitting alone in the dark drinking our grocery money.” Steve felt himself flush in shame as he looked over at the bottle, an indulgence that they rarely allowed themselves and here was Steve, being a selfish bastard. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, “I’ll make it up-”

“Hey no,” Bucky interrupted, “Steve, that wasn’t my point. Sit down,” he said, pushing Steve back down into his chair, “and tell me what’s wrong.” Steve sat, but shook his head, the room spinning as he did so, and he had to brace one hand against the table. 

“Nothing’s wrong,” he repeated, and Bucky raised an eyebrow, not believing him. 

“Something’s obviously wrong,” he said. 

“No, nothing’s wrong! I just want to go to bed,” Steve said again, feeling the hot coal of anger that lived in his stomach burst into life, lacing his words with a sharp edge. 

“Bullshit,” Bucky repeated, and Steve threw his hands up in anger. 

“Well I don’t know what you fucking want me to say Barnes, because everything’s fucking fine.” Bucky leaned back, looking at his friend with all of the impassiveness of someone well versed in dealing with Steve’s particular brand of stubborn anger. 

“What’s wrong?” He repeated, his continuing calm standing in stark contrast to Steve’s outburst. Steve felt the anger rising within him again, the alcohol pulling and twisting at his usual denial. “Steve,” Bucky said softly, and that was the last straw. 

“Everything!” Steve snapped, “everything’s fucking wrong okay? You’re going off to Europe to fight Nazis, I’m saying here because I’m fucking useless and can’t do my part, and I’m going to be all alone, and I love you and you’re going to die.” Silence filled the room like a vacuum, Steve’s eyes widening as he realized what he’d said. He quickly snapped his gaze to Bucky’s face. The other man looked shellshocked, leaning back in his chair like Steve had struck him with a physical blow. “I- I didn’t-” Steve started, stumbling over his words in his haste to get them out, to take them back. 

“You love me?” Bucky said softly, and that was it. 

It was over. 

Steve nodded, his courage failing him for the first time in his life as he looked away from Bucky, staring across the kitchen, unable to watch as his best friend left him, unwilling to see the disgust or anger or whatever on Bucky’s face. The room was utterly silent, the only noise distant shouts and sirens from the streets outside. 

The sound of cloth rustling right next to him had Steve swinging his head back around to find Bucky kneeling on the floor in front of him, face a mask of devastation. He raised his hand as if he was thinking about putting it on Steve’s knee, before raising it to run it through his hair, looking away from Steve as he sighed. Looking back up at Steve, he finally spoke. 

“Steve, look, I would never… never hate you for who you are. You’re my _best friend_ no matter what.”

“But that’s it, isn’t it?” Steve said, looking away from the complicated mix of emotions scrolling their way across his friend’s face. 

“Steve-”

“No, it’s fine, I’m being stupid and selfish. I don’t expect anything from you, I never have, it’s fine, it’s just…” he trailed off, and this time Bucky did touch him, fingers coming up to rest lightly on Steve’s knee. 

“Just what Stevie?” Steve sighed, still not able to look back at his friend. 

“It’s just… this is it, isn’t it? You’re going off to war and who knows if you’ll make it back-” he felt Bucky’s fingers spasm against his leg, and Steve felt a flash of guilt even as he continued speaking, “-and even if you do, who knows if I’ll be here when you get back.” There was a pause, and Steve finally gathered the courage to look back at Bucky, who was looking up at him with a mixture of confusion and pain. 

“What do you mean?” Steve frowned. 

“You must have thought of it Bucky,” he said, continuing when Bucky shook his head, “that you’ll go off to war, you’ll do your part and be a hero, and when you come back the only thing that’ll be left of me will be an unmarked pauper’s grave.” Bucky’s hand clenched tighter than ever on his knee, but Steve still continued, feeling a bright vicious thrill of satisfaction at his friend’s obvious distress. “I’ll catch pneumonia, or tuberculosis, or hell, the fucking cold, and I won’t be able to work or buy medicine and I’ll finally die.” 

“Don’t talk like that,” Bucky said, voice rough as he looked up at his friend. He shook Steve’s leg. “Don’t fucking talk like that.” 

“It’s the truth!” Steve said with a bitter laugh, “I’m weak and sickly and we both know that I was always going to die young. And with you gone, well…” 

“Don’t do this Steve,” Bucky said, voice desperate, “you know I ain’t got no choice, I got to go, don’t do this.” 

“Don’t do what?” Steve said with another harsh laugh. “Tell the truth?”

“Shut up, shut the fuck up.” Steve shook his head. 

“I don’t want to be cruel Buck, but it’s the fucking truth, and we both know it. How many times? How many times have you gotten the priest to give me last rites? It’s always been a matter of time, since the day I was born.”

“You’re not going to fucking die!” Bucky shouted, and Steve jumped in his seat, brought down from the vicious triumph of hurting his friend by the pain on Bucky’s face, guilt suddenly roaring through him. 

“You’re right,” he said hastily, trying desperately to undo the damage he had just done, leaning forward to put his hand on Bucky’s shoulder. “You’re right, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” 

“Jesus Rogers, you’ve got a fucking mean streak, you know that?” Bucky said, face twisted as he looked up at him. 

“I know, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Steve apologized again, sliding out of his seat so that he was sitting across from Bucky on the floor. “I’m sorry.” Bucky shook his head. 

“Why’re you doing this Steve?” He said, and Steve paused. 

“I’m afraid,” he finally admitted, and Bucky’s eyebrows raised in surprise at Steve’s confession, “this might be the last time I see you. And it just… it matters how this ends, and I’ve fucked it all up.” 

“Why does it matter Steve? You’re going to see me again, and I’ll never stop being your friend, no matter what.” Bucky leaned in, trying to catch Steve's eye. Steve looked at him, breath hitching. 

“It matters because… because if this is my last night with you, I want it to be something more, something special, but instead I’ve ruined everything.” He paused, struggling to get his thoughts together through the fog of the whiskey, “I don’t… I never expected anything of you, was never going to tell you, but what if you die or what if I die?” He looked up at Bucky. “What if I never love anyone again?” He whispered, and watched as Bucky’s face crumpled. He shook his head, helpless, and Steve looked away. 

“What do you want Steve?” Bucky finally asked, voice cracking slightly, “what can I give you?” Steve looked at Bucky. 

“Please,” he said, unable to bring himself to voice his thoughts. _Please hold me like I’m more than just a friend. Please give me a memory to carry me on. Please give me something for when you’re gone. Please._ Bucky gave him a look heavy with sorrow before seeming to come to a decision. Before Steve realized what was happening, Bucky was leaning across the space between them, pressing his lips gently against Steve’s. Steve jerked back. 

“What- what the fuck Bucky?” Bucky leaned back, confusion and fear flicking across his eyes. 

“I thought… I thought that was what you wanted.” 

“But you don’t want it! Buck, I told you, I don’t expect-”

“I do want it.”

“No you fucking don’t.”

“Don’t fucking tell me how I feel Rogers.” 

“Well then don’t fucking lie to me Buck. You don’t want this.”

“I want to give this _to_ you Steve, what so fucking difficult to understand about that?” Steve rocked back like Bucky had physically hit him, and Bucky spoke again, softer. “Please, let me give this to you Steve.” Steve hesitated, but didn’t move when Bucky leaned forward again. His lips were dry but soft when they pressed against Steve’s. They kissed like that for several minutes, then Steve felt the press of Bucky’s tongue against his lips, and he opened his mouth, feeling tears slip from his eyes as Bucky deepened the kiss. It was warm and hot and everything he’d ever wanted and he felt like he was dying. His entire universe was slipping away from him and there was nothing he could do. He couldn’t save Bucky, couldn’t save himself, couldn’t fix this. Bucky’s hand came up to grip his face as they continued to kiss. 

Steve finally broke away with a sob, Bucky’s hand staying against his jaw, thumb brushing tears from Steve’s face. Steve began to sob in earnest, curling forward into Bucky’s chest, and Bucky wrapped his arms around him and just held on. He could feel Bucky shaking too, didn’t know if the other man was also crying. The sobs grew from deep within his chest, moving up to shake his whole body as he fought to breathe. They stayed like that, tangled together, until Steve finally cried himself into exhaustion, allowing Bucky to lead him to bed where he immediately collapsed into sleep. 

They didn’t talk about it the next morning. 

Two days later Bucky went off to war, and in the end Steve was right.

He did die.

They both did.

**Author's Note:**

> And then seventy years later, the man who used to be Bucky Barnes fell in love with the man that used to be tiny, sickly Steve Rogers, and they lived happily ever after ~~because I can't deal with how sad this made me~~. 
> 
> [reblog on tumblr](http://stevesbootyshorts.tumblr.com/post/135339552438/all-i-ask)


End file.
